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Until our wedding day, that is. We've finally nailed down a date and location, though final site contract has yet to be executed. On Sunday, September 4, 2005, Steve and I will put on the schmanciest clothes of our lives, stand under the chuppah, exchange rings and vows, smooch passionately, and then dance up a storm with 200-plus of our nearest and dearest at a beautiful converted farmhouse east of Boulder.
I can't wait!
Last night, I tossed and turned all night playing over and over in my head the 10th Circuit argument I was scheduled to present today. I must have slept a little, because I woke with a start from a dream in which I'd stood up in front of the court, opened my mouth, and gazed in horror as absolutely nothing came out. When I left for the office this morning at 7:15, I was groggy, bleary-eyed, and frantically practicing my opening.
I arrived at the courthouse and was flattered when the clerk's staff greeted me cheerfully and presented me with the infrared amplification system, supposedly all prepped and ready. Then we went upstairs to test the sytem. Suddenly, I was pinching myself to make sure I was, in fact, awake, dressed (to impress), and standing in the actual courtroom in which I was to actually argue just a few minutes hence. Because nothing - other than some crackling interference - was coming out of the headset.
The court technician immediately brought up a second headset, but this one also failed to produce anything more than a bit of static. He fiddled with the infrared panels up above the judges' bench, but still . . . nothing. With ten minutes to go before the session began, I realized I'd have to argue the case un-amplified.
The court staff was concerned and apologetic. They assured me they would alert the judges to the problem and if I couldn't hear well enough to argue we'd figure out "something." Fortunately, my argument was docketed in the smallest, most acoustic-friendly of the 10th Circuit's four courtrooms, so I figured I'd be able to see and hear the judges well enough to survive. Still, I was nervous, distracted, and fighting back tears as I sat down to await the judges' entrance.
The two arguments preceding mine passed much too quickly, and I began to shake as the time for my appearance drew closer (in the interests of full disclosure, I should admit that I always start shaking a few minutes before oral argument). But when I finally reached the podium, the presiding judge gave me a warm smile, indicating they were aware of and concerned about the accommodations problem. I relaxed a little and started my pitch.
And actually completed my entire opening schpiel, and the next few points, and the point after that - all without a peep from the bench. At this point, I entered a whole new waking nightmare. In addition to being afraid I wouldn't be able to hear the judges' questions, I started to worry that they would never even ask me a question I'd have to try to hear. Finally - FINALLY - one of the judges threw me a helpful bone, and I was able to make a nice little point underscoring the strength of my case. After barely six of my allotted fifteen minutes, I sat down.
Then began the worst part of the experience: because I was facing my opponent's back, I could barely understand a word he said. I'm sure I looked comical leaning halfway over the counsel table, straining to catch the gist of his argument, and I was afraid to blink for fear of missing something crucial. But lucky for me, the panel seemed to be leaning my way, and the judges triple-teamed the government lawyer with one hostile question after another. Because I could see the judges' faces, I was able to understand most of their questions and could anticipate much of what my opponent likely said in reponse.
When I stood back up for rebuttal, I apologized to the judges that I'd been unable to hear most of the appellee's argument, and asked them to let me know if I overlooked a point on which they wanted a response. One of the judges responded that it was the court, not me, who should be apologizing for the technological malfunction. This made me and everyone else in the courtroom laugh, and I certainly appreciated the understanding.
This time around, they had more questions for me (several of which I had to ask them to repeat), and seemed to be engaged in the case and supportive of my position. My colleagues who came to watch said I'd picked up on exactly the points in my opponent's argument that warranted rebuttal, though I had to admit I'd guessed at those based on the panel's questions.
When I finally walked out of the courtroom, I nearly collapsed under the weight of pent-up anxiety. I'd held it together through the argument and managed to stay poised, keep my argument on track, and not get flustered when I couldn't hear, but doing so had taken every available ounce of my physical and mental energy. Coupled with the fatigue flowing from my sleepless night, I was ready to sink into a sleepy pile on the courthouse steps.
Somehow, I made it back to work. Then, rather than diving headfirst into the huge brief I need to finish, I took a long lunch break for yoga, which boosted my energy and helped me release the morning's residual stress. On my return to the office, I found a voice mail from the courtroom deputy apologizing for the technological difficulties and commending me on doing a "fabulous" job despite the problem. I appreciated the message, and I have to hope that my inability to hear didn't compromise my ability to advocate effectively on my client's behalf.
After all, his trial attorney (as was discussed during argument today) was a crackhead who entered inpatient drug rehab just days before the trial. At this stage in the proceedings, he needs and deserves a lawyer who's operating at full strength.
1. Feeling centered and spiritual, though exceedingly hungry, as the sun begins to set on Yom Kippur.
2. Sharing unrestrained, uncontrollable, irresistibly contagious belly laughs with dear friends.
3. Enjoying an invigorating hike through glorious foliage with a joyous dog on a crisp fall day.
4. Knowing that in less than three weeks, home really will be where the heart is.
5. Getting home from the weekend early enough to snuggle in the comfy chair and watch Sunday Night Football together.
I mentioned a couple of months ago that I would be speaking to a group of law students about federal habeas procedure and wrongful convictions. That much-anticipated presentation rolled around last night, and despite my post-vacation chaos, early-stage wedding-planning obsession, and house-buying-and-selling insanity, I somehow managed to pull together my materials for the class and had a wonderful time presenting.
When I walked into the room, I suddenly realized that it has been nearly a decade since I left law school. Yet I still feel like I'm just getting the hang of my profession, and I often wonder when the mantle of authority and expertise will sit comfortably on my shoulders. By the same token, these students (mostly 3Ls) seemed older, more mature, and more focused than I remember feeling as a law student. Though they were obviously overwhelmed by the procedural intricacies of federal habeas practice, and seemed a bit shellshocked by the realization that the federal courts are not terribly interested in whether or not a state prisoner is factually or legally innocent, they seemed to understand most of what I was saying. In fact, the professor later told me that he only saw one student's eyes glaze over during the 100-minute class session, and he considered this quite an accomplishment on my part.
I was surprised at how much I enjoyed explaining the basics of habeas, and I found it easier than anticipated to find a balance between overgeneralization and excruciating detail. I spoke about some of my favorite cases and clients, and offered some success stories to counter the sense of futility most of them were experiencing. Several students asked excellent questions relating to specific aspects of the cases on which they are assisting, and they all seem to be working diligently to help overturn wrongful convictions.
Steve came along to listen, which was a real treat for me and gave him a better sense of what I do for a living. He absorbed most of the material pretty well, and I assured him that the habeas jargon he found so confusing was equally inaccessible to the vast majority of lawyers and law students. He gave me very helpful (and shockingly positive) feedback on my teaching style, and planted the seeds of an idea that will require further exploration down the road. I also received some great follow-up e-mails from the students, indicating that they actually were listening and paying attention to most of what I had to say.
Such fun. And just what I needed to generate the motivation and focus to crank out a brief, prepare for oral argument, and jump into yet another enormous new case record.
If any of you are planning to get engaged in the near future, I strongly recommend that you flee the country immediately after your sweetheart proposes. This will provide you with a chance to wind down a little and prepare yourself before the inevitable wedding-planning madness strikes.
The dust had barely settled on our engagement when it began. The questions started flying from all sides - When's the wedding? Where will it be? Where have you registered? Will you change your name? What kind of dress will you wear? - and even the most tentative answers seem to invite a barrage of critique, criticism, and unsolicited advice. While I'm eagerly seeking ideas and input from a wide variety of sources, even the most casual acquaintances seem to feel free to advise us that whatever we're (still very tentatively) considering doing is entirely unacceptable. By the same token, people seem to expect that we will have already planned the entire wedding, though we are still over a year out from our (still tentative) date.
What we have figured out so far is that we will likely get hitched in late September of next year. Beyond that, the wedding is a moving target. Literally, because we're having a hell of a time finding the right place for it. You might think, given the amount of time that Steve and I spend climbing rocks and sliding down mountains that we'd have a High Country wedding, but due to beloved relatives on both sides whose age and health would preclude attendance at a high altitude event, we'll be sticking closer to town. Our choice of mountain-ish locations is further limited by the likely size of the shindig, because virtually everything we like in the Boulder area fits fewer than 200 at full capacity. We are still searching and brainstorming, and are also pondering ways we might mountain-ize a slightly more urban or suburban setting.
Despite what I said above about the giving of advice, I'd love to hear your thoughts on this whole process. I promise (to try) not to turn this into The Big Pink Wedding Blog, but I'm hoping to gather suggestions from many different sources on various aspects of Wedding Stuff. Paramount among my concerns is making sure that our guests are happy. The wedding will almost certainly be on a Sunday afternoon and evening, necessitating Monday travel for our many out-of-towners, and I recognize that this will come as an inconvenience to some. Because of this, and because I've spent much time and money on other people's weddings over the past decade or so, I want to do everything possible to ensure the comfort and satisfaction of those friends and family members who make the effort to share our wedding day with us.
Any ideas? I can't promise I'll take them, but the comments section is open for business.
Last year, Rosh Hashana services left me cold. I'm not much for religious services in general and the whole God thing is pretty much lost on me, but most years, I groove on the intensity and the powerful feelings of community, heritage, and spirituality that seem to permeate High Holidays services. But in 2003, I just wasn't feeling it. Perhaps it was because my nephew made his early appearance just a few days before Rosh Hashana, distracting all of us (joyously) with the trip to Atlanta for his bris and resulting in the first cancellation in 20-some-odd years of my parents' Rosh Hashana open house. Whatever the reason, the holidays left me feeling disconnected and a little sad.
When the new year rolled around again, barely 24 hours after I returned from Greece, I had no real expectations of it. Yet almost in spite of myself, I came away from Rosh Hashana filled with a sense of spiritual renewal and connectedness. My grandmother made her annual pilgrimage westward, bringing her indomitable spirit and razor-sharp wit; the rabbi's sermon was, if a bit long, relevant and thought-provoking; Steve attended his first Jewish service and survived, even asking intelligent and discussion-generating questions afterwards; the Open House was as crowded, food-filled, and entertaining as ever despite the one-year hiatus. And although the English readings at services were as lost on me as always, the prayers and songs and chanting in Hebrew spun a silvery thread in my heart and bound me tighter to the fabric of tradition.
L'shana Tova.
I'm back! I can't say the vacation was quite the relaxing, regenerating experience I so desperately needed, what with the high winds and six-foot waves and puking over the side of my kayak and whatnot, but it was an adventure and a terrific experience on whole.
The post-kayaking part of the trip was enough to remind me why I love unstructured, non-group travel, as Lily and I attempted unsuccessfully to get out of Dodge a day early. We wound up having a delightful late-night helpful-locals experience in a small island town, then spent an entire day lazing luxuriously by the Athens Hilton's swanky pool. I am only slightly embarrassed to admit that the closest I got to the Acropolis and Parthenon was the stunning view from our hotel room's balcony.
My camera was rendered unserviceable by an unfortunate early-trip mishap, but I should have a few photos to post soon. Others to follow, perhaps, as I collect the promised copies from fellow travelers.
Now it's back to the salt mines, with much work and life and wedding planning to tackle. I'm sort of looking forward to immersing myself in it all, but am even more excited about eating a fresh vegetable that is neither a cucumber or a tomato.
Greece beckons. I've crossed my fingers for post-Olympic calm and am hoping the anti-American sentiment that seemed to pervade the Games has subsided.
See you September 14th-ish.
1. Print 500 pages of transcript. Figure out how to transport them conveniently.
2. Reconcile myself to the reality of having done precisely NOTHING in the past two weeks to prepare for this trip.
3. Pack.
4. Kiss my adorable but sinus-infected fiance (fiance!!) for the last time until September 14.
5. Ensure that not a speck of dust, dirt, clutter, or trash remains in my house, in the hopes that it will actually sell while I'm away.
6. Leave a check for the cleaning lady. Wonder why I'm having her come in light of #5.
7. Triple check my packing lists. Add to baggage the assorted essential items I very nearly forget.
8. Buy my first (ever!) bridal magazine. Hope my hands don't shake when I pay for it.
9. Attempt to spend airplane ride reading #1. Resist the urge to procrastinate by reading #8.
10. Sleep? We don't need no stinkin' sleep.
